Michael Levin in his essay, "The Case for Torture," argues that torture is permissible in extreme cases where human lives are threatened; however, I disagree with Mr. Levin and would argue that his argument is flawed. The very root of his argument is illogical because his logic that torture should be allowed in extreme cases, should even be considered "morally mandatory," when a situation deems torture necessary to save innocent lives, does not address the real issue in the case for condoning torture, which relates not only to opening Pandora's box, but also equating torture with the "possibility" of saving lives.
Levin cannot argue that the case to torture, an issue so disruptive to the core values of the United States and even international law, is as simple an argument as he presents. The United States joined with many other countries at the Geneva Convention, after WWII, for the purpose of signing a declaration that openly states that all nations regardless of opposing doctrines and philosophies, would not only uphold the dignity of life by protecting their enemy's soldiers from inhumane and unjust treatment if imprisoned while at war, but also to universally declare that life, all life, is valuable. The United States took the leadership role in agreeing with nations of the world that the issue of torture, inhumane treatment of a human being, including soldiers of all nations, despite any apparent ongoing conflict, should be protected from barbarism.
I would argue that this declaration should be upheld at any cost. If the United States of America lowers its standards on the dignity of life, the respect for all human life, regardless of the sadistic minds of the criminal, such as in the case of Islamic terrorism, where human life is anything but respected, it has not only lost the war on terrorism because we have become terrorists ourselves, gradually accepting animalistic behavior, behavior never necessary if we draw upon a higher power, which is human intelligence, but also its reputation and integrity as a leader in the "free" world, a world that is becoming increasingly rare, a world that the proponents of terrorism long to eradicate.
Furthermore, I would argue that the very premise of Levin's argument is flawed. How can the united States trade gold for silver? In other words, how can we condone something with such drastic and far-reaching repercussions as torture for the "hope" the prisoner will talk, especially a prisoner who has been trained as a suicide bomber whose goal is death? Cannot the United States of America be more proactive? If the United States advocates torture, as Levin says, with the hope of gathering top-secret information, doesn't this logic merely implicate the United States as stupid? If it cannot stop the war on terror without implementing torture, then it never will. In reality, if it stoops so low as to try to get information from a mere puppet when it should have not only known prior about the plot but should have already stopped it from formulating then something is seriously wrong. It is not seeing the trees form the woods.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Cold
Before I can describe to you what I do on "the coldest day of the year," I must define "cold." Cold is defined by Merriam-Webster as "having or being a temperature that is uncomfortably low for humans," or "marked by the lack of normal human emotion; friendliness or compassion." These two combined definitions accurately describe not only how I felt one very, very cold Christmas morning in 1974 when I woke up in Anchorage, Alaska to find my head frozen to the wall of a friend's guest room, but also about seriousness of life.
Realizing that I was just frozen to the wall and not frozen to death, I grabbed my frozen, cold damp, stiff hair and began pulling it piece by piece away from the hard frozen wall. We had just arrived in Alaska late the previous evening and this "space" was the only option besides sleeping in our car, which wasn't an option at 30` below zero. The room did have a wood-burning stove, but the fire had disappeared in the middle of the night, and all that remained where the fire once roared were cold, dead ashes, so getting dressed in the frigid cold was quite an experience, a very alarming experience. As I attempted to find warmth where no warmth existed, I experienced what an abandoned astronaut might feel like in outerspace without oxygen--every second was piercingly unbearable. We left without making the bed.
Once outside, we began walking to the main road that connects Anchorage to Fairbanks. Our destination was Talkeetna, a small town about 100 miles away. We had to hitch-hike to Talkeetna because the truck we had driven nearly 4000 miles from Michigan to Alaska had to be returned to the car dealer on or before December 24th. This Alaskan dealership had paid us to drive a brand-new F250 Ford from Michigan to Alaska. We had handed-over the keys less than twelve hours before, but little did we imagine that cold Christmas morning, as we headed North to Talkeetna, that we would see more moose than people and even fewer cars on that lonely, two-lane Alaskan highway.
By the time we arrived in Talkeetna, the day had turned to night. We were frozen-solid cold, in spite of our new Alaskan parkas and Sorel boots. The ice had crystallized in our eyes, noses, ears and mouths, and our feet and hands had little feeling of life. When we realized the apparent danger we were in as the day progressed and eventually disappeared, we began flagging down every car as it passed, and they were few and far between. Finally, a kind man took pity on us, trusted his instincts, and drove us 15 miles out-of-his-way to our destination.
During our "thaw," we sipped hot chocolate, sat by the blazing fire and starred numbly at the red-hot embers. Rather distanced from the day's developments, we found words difficult to assemble. The silence, nevertheless, was noticed deeply in our hearts and minds. I knew in that moment that people never intentionally drown to death in pools of water, or, more importantly, never freeze to death by the side of roads, as we had almost done just hours before, they just suddenly find themselves in an unplanned, uncontrollable situation, a dire and pathetic moment where laughter turns to tears, beginnings to ends and life to death.
Every year on December 25Th, I recall that cold Christmas day of 1974 when the deep, dreadful depths of darkness consumed the daylight and all its living creatures. As I ponder the past, I raise a warm glass and sense that impending chill.
Colleen Klaus
Before I can describe to you what I do on "the coldest day of the year," I must define "cold." Cold is defined by Merriam-Webster as "having or being a temperature that is uncomfortably low for humans," or "marked by the lack of normal human emotion; friendliness or compassion." These two combined definitions accurately describe not only how I felt one very, very cold Christmas morning in 1974 when I woke up in Anchorage, Alaska to find my head frozen to the wall of a friend's guest room, but also about seriousness of life.
Realizing that I was just frozen to the wall and not frozen to death, I grabbed my frozen, cold damp, stiff hair and began pulling it piece by piece away from the hard frozen wall. We had just arrived in Alaska late the previous evening and this "space" was the only option besides sleeping in our car, which wasn't an option at 30` below zero. The room did have a wood-burning stove, but the fire had disappeared in the middle of the night, and all that remained where the fire once roared were cold, dead ashes, so getting dressed in the frigid cold was quite an experience, a very alarming experience. As I attempted to find warmth where no warmth existed, I experienced what an abandoned astronaut might feel like in outerspace without oxygen--every second was piercingly unbearable. We left without making the bed.
Once outside, we began walking to the main road that connects Anchorage to Fairbanks. Our destination was Talkeetna, a small town about 100 miles away. We had to hitch-hike to Talkeetna because the truck we had driven nearly 4000 miles from Michigan to Alaska had to be returned to the car dealer on or before December 24th. This Alaskan dealership had paid us to drive a brand-new F250 Ford from Michigan to Alaska. We had handed-over the keys less than twelve hours before, but little did we imagine that cold Christmas morning, as we headed North to Talkeetna, that we would see more moose than people and even fewer cars on that lonely, two-lane Alaskan highway.
By the time we arrived in Talkeetna, the day had turned to night. We were frozen-solid cold, in spite of our new Alaskan parkas and Sorel boots. The ice had crystallized in our eyes, noses, ears and mouths, and our feet and hands had little feeling of life. When we realized the apparent danger we were in as the day progressed and eventually disappeared, we began flagging down every car as it passed, and they were few and far between. Finally, a kind man took pity on us, trusted his instincts, and drove us 15 miles out-of-his-way to our destination.
During our "thaw," we sipped hot chocolate, sat by the blazing fire and starred numbly at the red-hot embers. Rather distanced from the day's developments, we found words difficult to assemble. The silence, nevertheless, was noticed deeply in our hearts and minds. I knew in that moment that people never intentionally drown to death in pools of water, or, more importantly, never freeze to death by the side of roads, as we had almost done just hours before, they just suddenly find themselves in an unplanned, uncontrollable situation, a dire and pathetic moment where laughter turns to tears, beginnings to ends and life to death.
Every year on December 25Th, I recall that cold Christmas day of 1974 when the deep, dreadful depths of darkness consumed the daylight and all its living creatures. As I ponder the past, I raise a warm glass and sense that impending chill.
Colleen Klaus
Friday, October 23, 2009
Realization
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
I dream. I sleep. I want to stay here forever.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
In the distance, an intruder.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Go away. Leave me alone.
Bam. . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Where was I . . . my comfort disappears.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
The interruption . . . okay!
The disturbance . . . okay!
The distraction . . . okay!
I am awake.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Abruptly awakened.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
I look.
I look again.
No one.
I tear open the curtains.
I stare through the shutters.
I strain to see the culprit, the commotion.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
I cannot.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Yet, I know.
An elbow bends and straightens.
An elbow straightens and bends.
A fist tightly clenches the tool that constructs.
Steady. Steady. Steady.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Inch by inch, somewhere the shiny, silver nails disappear.
Like my dream.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
I dream. I sleep. I want to stay here forever.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
In the distance, an intruder.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Go away. Leave me alone.
Bam. . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Where was I . . . my comfort disappears.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
The interruption . . . okay!
The disturbance . . . okay!
The distraction . . . okay!
I am awake.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Abruptly awakened.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
I look.
I look again.
No one.
I tear open the curtains.
I stare through the shutters.
I strain to see the culprit, the commotion.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
I cannot.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Yet, I know.
An elbow bends and straightens.
An elbow straightens and bends.
A fist tightly clenches the tool that constructs.
Steady. Steady. Steady.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Inch by inch, somewhere the shiny, silver nails disappear.
Like my dream.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Living
Some people scream and shout.
Some people curse the skies.
Some people live in defiance of the the limitations.
Some people demand answers.
Some people are much too preoccupied with everyday existence,
To probe or ponder, much less question.
Others simply, breathe in each ounce of each new day.
Refusing to contemplate what cannot be.
But notice or not, it looms.
Mortality mortered in immortality.
Within the heights and depths of heaven and Earth,
Sparkling, shimmering, speaking . . .
Circling, rotating, consuming all,
Comfortably defiant,
Like a new born infant,
Present, miraculous, normal.
An old man dies alone . . .
Is it in the knowledge of today,
The silence of tomorrow,
Or in the loss of yesterday,
That we wonder,
That we demand,
That we die to know what cannot be known.
Or die to relive yesterday?
Finality existing within infinality.
We shall overcome . . . someday.
Forever and ever . . .
One breath away . . . one more revolution.
Out of sight . . . out of mind.
Some people curse the skies.
Some people live in defiance of the the limitations.
Some people demand answers.
Some people are much too preoccupied with everyday existence,
To probe or ponder, much less question.
Others simply, breathe in each ounce of each new day.
Refusing to contemplate what cannot be.
But notice or not, it looms.
Mortality mortered in immortality.
Within the heights and depths of heaven and Earth,
Sparkling, shimmering, speaking . . .
Circling, rotating, consuming all,
Comfortably defiant,
Like a new born infant,
Present, miraculous, normal.
An old man dies alone . . .
Is it in the knowledge of today,
The silence of tomorrow,
Or in the loss of yesterday,
That we wonder,
That we demand,
That we die to know what cannot be known.
Or die to relive yesterday?
Finality existing within infinality.
We shall overcome . . . someday.
Forever and ever . . .
One breath away . . . one more revolution.
Out of sight . . . out of mind.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Human Suffering
I am only one person. I can only see and feel and touch with my own senses--eyes and ears, hands and heart. I cannot begin to feel someone else's pain until I am touched by what I see or hear or experience. I once knew of a man who was described by someone close to him as someone with "bad" feet. I never saw his feet, but this person who was close to him, someone who knew him, kept telling me in private how bad his feet were and how many problems he had with his feet; however, the man never complained, ever. He not only never wanted pity, but also refused to bring attention on himself, so every morning he slowly and methodically bandaged his feet and then put on his socks and shoes. He wore the shoes all day. He only removed the shoes and socks before going to bed for the night.
One night he took a fall during the night, and I was the person who came to help. In the panic of trying to help him up, I saw his feet. I saw his feet for the first time. I was embarrassed to look, but only because I felt his embarrassment and his pain. For one brief moment as I watched him helplessly try to recover, and as I tried with all my strength to help him up, I saw the exposed frailty of not only a man, but of all humankind. Hiding his pain I saw him quickly put his foot into the overturned slipper. With his toe nails injured and feet crippled, he shuffled away trying to make sense of an unforeseen accident, an accident that left him dazed and slightly more conscious of his aging body. I, on the other hand, could not bear to watch or even think about what had just occurred.
Human suffering. Everywhere, everyday, behind the walls of houses and the walls of hospitals, behind the walls of back alleys and the walls of convalescent centers and even behind the walls of mansions, people are begging for mercy, begging for people not to see, to look the other way, to pretend not to see who they are and what they have become, for they don't even recognize themselves. They can no longer fix their broken toes and calloused feet, yet they shuffle forward, but it is in the voice of their shuffle that I know God exists.
As much as I felt the pain of one man's fall, the pain of watching one man reassemble himself, trying to hide his crooked feet, how much more could a God who sits on a throne in heaven ever relate in an intimate way to humankind unless he walked the walk? How could God possibly know humankind unless he became one of them? And who, on the other hand, could ever worship or understand a God who did not feel the pain of being human? As my heart breaks for this one man, God's heart broke for all of His creation; he saw the crooked feet and the embarrassed eyes, so he became one of us. He is easily moved by the feeling of humankind's infirmities. I could worship and love no other kind of God, nothing other than a human God, regardless of how great and powerful, regardless of how hot the flames of hell or an eternity of brimstone and fire, regardless of damnation. The God who made this man feels for this man because He was a man.
One night he took a fall during the night, and I was the person who came to help. In the panic of trying to help him up, I saw his feet. I saw his feet for the first time. I was embarrassed to look, but only because I felt his embarrassment and his pain. For one brief moment as I watched him helplessly try to recover, and as I tried with all my strength to help him up, I saw the exposed frailty of not only a man, but of all humankind. Hiding his pain I saw him quickly put his foot into the overturned slipper. With his toe nails injured and feet crippled, he shuffled away trying to make sense of an unforeseen accident, an accident that left him dazed and slightly more conscious of his aging body. I, on the other hand, could not bear to watch or even think about what had just occurred.
Human suffering. Everywhere, everyday, behind the walls of houses and the walls of hospitals, behind the walls of back alleys and the walls of convalescent centers and even behind the walls of mansions, people are begging for mercy, begging for people not to see, to look the other way, to pretend not to see who they are and what they have become, for they don't even recognize themselves. They can no longer fix their broken toes and calloused feet, yet they shuffle forward, but it is in the voice of their shuffle that I know God exists.
As much as I felt the pain of one man's fall, the pain of watching one man reassemble himself, trying to hide his crooked feet, how much more could a God who sits on a throne in heaven ever relate in an intimate way to humankind unless he walked the walk? How could God possibly know humankind unless he became one of them? And who, on the other hand, could ever worship or understand a God who did not feel the pain of being human? As my heart breaks for this one man, God's heart broke for all of His creation; he saw the crooked feet and the embarrassed eyes, so he became one of us. He is easily moved by the feeling of humankind's infirmities. I could worship and love no other kind of God, nothing other than a human God, regardless of how great and powerful, regardless of how hot the flames of hell or an eternity of brimstone and fire, regardless of damnation. The God who made this man feels for this man because He was a man.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Life
The day was no different than the day before, except that it was a new day with a unique date in time: July 11, 2009. Yesterday was gone and this was Saturday, not Friday. This was July not June. This was 2009 not 2008 or 2007 or 2006 . . . She had to remind herself that this day was not the day before or the day before that; it was a new today; unfortunately though, she had to remind herself of the importance of the day. For her, at this particular moment in her life, one day was like another day, and as hard as she tried to be thankful and happy for the day, to be happy to be alive, and make no mistake, she knew how fortunate she was, some days were definitely more difficult than others. In spite of her apparent boredom, she knew life was a gift, if only because of its temporality. In fact, she even advised other people who were having a tough time, a rough day or who were slightly unimpressed with their lives to look on the bright side, that they were fortunate to be alive, to be well, and she meant it, but she found that really living the words were more difficult but not impossible.
She knew life was beautiful; life was good, and she believed it, but she also knew that her recently apparent lack of luster for life was not shared by those who had something worthwhile to live for or were so absorbed in the moment, the everyday, were less likely to lose sight of the new day. For most, a new day is another opportunity to be preoccupied with life, to live, a new day to go to work, to love someone, or to do this or do that. They are usually too busy to think about the regularity of life, or at the very least, this is how it seemed to her. When people are busy with life, in a good way. they very rarely have the time to think about life in the same way as people who are not busy. Everyone who is old enough to reflect upon his or her own life understands the pauses in life, the moments when life seems to slow down or suddenly halt; in the same way, the overdrives of life--or the moments when there are not enough hours in the day. This particular moment in her life is a time of pause.
She remembers when she was a kid and her Mom worked everyday. More than anything at that time, she wished her Mom didn't have to go to work. She wished she would've stayed home, so they could go places and do things. Later on, when she was a grown, working woman with kids herself, the timetable had shifted. Her Mom now retired had time to go places and do things, but she did not. Time marches on . . .
Countless moments in life, when one day passes and another confronts, as people come and go and pass by, or speak or refrain from speaking, or sit or stand or wait, even as life progresses, sometimes slowly and meditatively and often instantaneously, how often do people think about who they are or where they've been or where they are going? The pauses of life provide such reflection. She is facing another day, barely recognizing herself or being completely in tune with her surroundings; she checks the calendar and adamantly tells herself that this day is a new day, and that she is lucky to be alive. Some are not so lucky. Five were killed yesterday in a train wreck. She is well. She is clothed. She has a roof over her head. Her kids are healthy . . . so life is good, yet she is idle. She is in the pause mode. She is waiting. She is waiting for something, but what? What will cease the waiting, the expectation? She is secretly, silently, sometimes anxiously awaiting and hoping for a better tomorrow, but how? What will make tomorrow better than today? Is today really all she needs, wants but cannot see? She hopes tomorrow will be different. She is hoping that someday her life will resume. She is hoping for employment, a job, for money; life will begin again, but, in the interim, she lives, she waits. There is living in the waiting; it is just more heavy. More internal. More limited. She thinks how much life is wasted on the waiting? How much of life does she waste in the waiting? She wonders if she has always been waiting . . . waiting Life is really all about tomorrow, about a new day, a new beginning, a new chance. New expectations? Human beings are always waiting for something? Waiting for tomorrow . . . to be older, wiser, more experienced? Is life really about waiting and being content in the waiting? Is the mistake of life neglecting today for tomorrow? Do people innately hope for a better tomorrow at the expense of losing today, which is really tomorrow.
In the absence, the pause of her life, she has been the burden instead of the carrier of burdens, the recipient rather than the provider, the child rather than the adult mother or adult parent, the dependent one rather than the independent one. Rather than making her own decisions, she nods in agreement. She molds. She grovels. She weakens. She changes. Days transform into tomorrow. It is impossible not to. She knows waiting to live is not living, so she attempts to make the day count; although, she cannot, really, no one can, breathe the fresh air of her own thoughts and life until they are free, free to make their own choices, yet she is alive. She refuses to lose today because she knows about the passing of time, and she cannot have the tangible moment of yesterday back; although, the days do lose their identity, one merges into another, the past into the present and yesterday into tomorrow. She attempts to make today count. She knows that tomorrow will be different, even as today is somewhat brighter, shaded, or misted from yesterday, and more so, altered from last year, so yes, she is trapped within her own mind and body, her own dwelling place, so to speak, but content knowing that nothing stays the same-she changes, people change,ideas change, flowers bloom and die, seasons come and go, and more importantly, the situations of life force change. Today is all she has. How many times has she heard it?
Even as she kicks and silently screams, as most do at one time or another, in their life, she knows from experience that today is all she has. She can play the game. She can be content in the waiting. Pauses are part of life--a big part of life. The pauses make a difference; amid the uncertainty, she knows that life is an interesting gift. Being alive, amid the everyday, breathing and being well, living today for all its worth, in the midst of the uncertain, is all she can ask or hope. In fact, within the pause lies the mystery of life--the time to reflect, the time to ponder, the time to question, the time to look around, the time to realize that life is a mystery and each day a miracle if not for the fact that our comprehension is limited and our lives finite.
She knew life was beautiful; life was good, and she believed it, but she also knew that her recently apparent lack of luster for life was not shared by those who had something worthwhile to live for or were so absorbed in the moment, the everyday, were less likely to lose sight of the new day. For most, a new day is another opportunity to be preoccupied with life, to live, a new day to go to work, to love someone, or to do this or do that. They are usually too busy to think about the regularity of life, or at the very least, this is how it seemed to her. When people are busy with life, in a good way. they very rarely have the time to think about life in the same way as people who are not busy. Everyone who is old enough to reflect upon his or her own life understands the pauses in life, the moments when life seems to slow down or suddenly halt; in the same way, the overdrives of life--or the moments when there are not enough hours in the day. This particular moment in her life is a time of pause.
She remembers when she was a kid and her Mom worked everyday. More than anything at that time, she wished her Mom didn't have to go to work. She wished she would've stayed home, so they could go places and do things. Later on, when she was a grown, working woman with kids herself, the timetable had shifted. Her Mom now retired had time to go places and do things, but she did not. Time marches on . . .
Countless moments in life, when one day passes and another confronts, as people come and go and pass by, or speak or refrain from speaking, or sit or stand or wait, even as life progresses, sometimes slowly and meditatively and often instantaneously, how often do people think about who they are or where they've been or where they are going? The pauses of life provide such reflection. She is facing another day, barely recognizing herself or being completely in tune with her surroundings; she checks the calendar and adamantly tells herself that this day is a new day, and that she is lucky to be alive. Some are not so lucky. Five were killed yesterday in a train wreck. She is well. She is clothed. She has a roof over her head. Her kids are healthy . . . so life is good, yet she is idle. She is in the pause mode. She is waiting. She is waiting for something, but what? What will cease the waiting, the expectation? She is secretly, silently, sometimes anxiously awaiting and hoping for a better tomorrow, but how? What will make tomorrow better than today? Is today really all she needs, wants but cannot see? She hopes tomorrow will be different. She is hoping that someday her life will resume. She is hoping for employment, a job, for money; life will begin again, but, in the interim, she lives, she waits. There is living in the waiting; it is just more heavy. More internal. More limited. She thinks how much life is wasted on the waiting? How much of life does she waste in the waiting? She wonders if she has always been waiting . . . waiting Life is really all about tomorrow, about a new day, a new beginning, a new chance. New expectations? Human beings are always waiting for something? Waiting for tomorrow . . . to be older, wiser, more experienced? Is life really about waiting and being content in the waiting? Is the mistake of life neglecting today for tomorrow? Do people innately hope for a better tomorrow at the expense of losing today, which is really tomorrow.
In the absence, the pause of her life, she has been the burden instead of the carrier of burdens, the recipient rather than the provider, the child rather than the adult mother or adult parent, the dependent one rather than the independent one. Rather than making her own decisions, she nods in agreement. She molds. She grovels. She weakens. She changes. Days transform into tomorrow. It is impossible not to. She knows waiting to live is not living, so she attempts to make the day count; although, she cannot, really, no one can, breathe the fresh air of her own thoughts and life until they are free, free to make their own choices, yet she is alive. She refuses to lose today because she knows about the passing of time, and she cannot have the tangible moment of yesterday back; although, the days do lose their identity, one merges into another, the past into the present and yesterday into tomorrow. She attempts to make today count. She knows that tomorrow will be different, even as today is somewhat brighter, shaded, or misted from yesterday, and more so, altered from last year, so yes, she is trapped within her own mind and body, her own dwelling place, so to speak, but content knowing that nothing stays the same-she changes, people change,ideas change, flowers bloom and die, seasons come and go, and more importantly, the situations of life force change. Today is all she has. How many times has she heard it?
Even as she kicks and silently screams, as most do at one time or another, in their life, she knows from experience that today is all she has. She can play the game. She can be content in the waiting. Pauses are part of life--a big part of life. The pauses make a difference; amid the uncertainty, she knows that life is an interesting gift. Being alive, amid the everyday, breathing and being well, living today for all its worth, in the midst of the uncertain, is all she can ask or hope. In fact, within the pause lies the mystery of life--the time to reflect, the time to ponder, the time to question, the time to look around, the time to realize that life is a mystery and each day a miracle if not for the fact that our comprehension is limited and our lives finite.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Today
Yesterday I said goodbye in the same way I have for years,
at every family function,
at every birthday party,
at every summer barbecue.
I said, "See ya later." "Thanks." "Take care."
Last night I said good night in the same way I have for years,
depending where and when and how . . .
I said, "Pleasant dreams." "Good night." "Don't let the bed bugs bite."
I assume the goodbyes are temporal. The separation reprieve.
I assume the night will bring a similar tomorrow, a recognizable day,
dependent upon yesterday and the day before and the day before that,
Until the daybreak when the sun sits somewhat differently in the sky.
The morning is different.
I am rearranged.
I scramble to adjust.
I hold on to the goodbyes and goodnights.
I know tomorrow is not today and yesterday is gone . . .
but only if I have no memory,
only if I have not said my goodbyes and goodnights,
only if I have not lived my today.
at every family function,
at every birthday party,
at every summer barbecue.
I said, "See ya later." "Thanks." "Take care."
Last night I said good night in the same way I have for years,
depending where and when and how . . .
I said, "Pleasant dreams." "Good night." "Don't let the bed bugs bite."
I assume the goodbyes are temporal. The separation reprieve.
I assume the night will bring a similar tomorrow, a recognizable day,
dependent upon yesterday and the day before and the day before that,
Until the daybreak when the sun sits somewhat differently in the sky.
The morning is different.
I am rearranged.
I scramble to adjust.
I hold on to the goodbyes and goodnights.
I know tomorrow is not today and yesterday is gone . . .
but only if I have no memory,
only if I have not said my goodbyes and goodnights,
only if I have not lived my today.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Existence
I imagine a huge, flexible plastic bag,
Just large enough to fit in and move around,
but not large enough to breathe freely or see clearly,
through the dark synthetic, recycled rubber.
Large enough, though, to punch and fight and try to escape.
Eventually, however, there is resolve to sit quietly.
Panting, feeling my chest heave,
I perform the necessary duties of the day.
Eventually, I find out that the punches only stretch the lining,
they never penetrate or puncture,
so I stretch my eyeballs to see something.
beyond the smothering, smolten chemicals.
Can I do otherwise?
Just large enough to fit in and move around,
but not large enough to breathe freely or see clearly,
through the dark synthetic, recycled rubber.
Large enough, though, to punch and fight and try to escape.
Eventually, however, there is resolve to sit quietly.
Panting, feeling my chest heave,
I perform the necessary duties of the day.
Eventually, I find out that the punches only stretch the lining,
they never penetrate or puncture,
so I stretch my eyeballs to see something.
beyond the smothering, smolten chemicals.
Can I do otherwise?
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Life
Life in the Fast Lane
Isolation and violence parade.
Disguised in righteousness
hate or costumed in self-contempt.
Marching to the plan of abusive intrusion.
Biting and chipping and pulling and prodding,
lying and loathing, and laughing.
Acting the part, playing the game,
but never knowing the truth,
I listen, I watch, I tremble.
I know. I know you. I know the truth.
Pretending not to look, to listen, to know,
I endure the bitter turmoil that errodes me,
I no longer exist.
Keep watching.
Ressurect your dead.
Colleen Klaus
Isolation and violence parade.
Disguised in righteousness
hate or costumed in self-contempt.
Marching to the plan of abusive intrusion.
Biting and chipping and pulling and prodding,
lying and loathing, and laughing.
Acting the part, playing the game,
but never knowing the truth,
I listen, I watch, I tremble.
I know. I know you. I know the truth.
Pretending not to look, to listen, to know,
I endure the bitter turmoil that errodes me,
I no longer exist.
Keep watching.
Ressurect your dead.
Colleen Klaus
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Wrapper
I have been thinking about how everything is covered by something else.
Wrappers. Wrappings. Everything is wrapped. From as far as the eye can see, everything, and I mean everything, is covered. Everything has a wrapper, some sort of covering that either protects it, saves it, constructs it, but definitely in some way, small or large, distinguishes, defines and even disguises it. Very rarely is a product found, a package discovered, or person exposed in pure form. Even a newborn baby is enclosed within a womb that is enclosed within a human being that is enclosed within this visible world. What is not wrapped, covered or encased in something else?
The planet Earth is enclosed within the solar system; the ozone covers, hovers and essentially creates a protective layer for people and plants and all living things; identifiable buildings wrap themselves around people, but are they not also wrapped in brick and clay and cement that are wrapped in elements that are wrapped in other elements? Food is wrapped in shimmering, shiny paper and plastic packages and colorful foil, but isn't paper too wrapped in wood which is wrapped in trees that are wrapped in bark? Isn't the plastic packaged in chemicals?
Roads cover dirt. Brains are wrapped in skulls, and thoughts in minds, but what are minds wrapped in? Bodies are wrapped in skin that are covered with animal or synthetic skins. Feet are wrapped in shoes. Democracy is enveloped in principles and philosophies. Children are wrapped in security, wrapped in knowledge and wisdom. People are wrapped in ideas and beliefs and self-esteem and failings and pain and joy and good and bad and struggles and wealth and poverty and life and death and rise and fall and yesterday and today and tomorrow and forever as long as the Earth remains perfectly distanced from the sun, and nothing unexpected, such as a huge crater, covered in rock, or unusual or angry atom bomb, wrapped in science, from a disgruntled hero, who is wrapped in hate, which is wrapped in abuse or misunderstanding, want or power, decides to pull a trigger connected to a bomb that is covered in metal, covered in chemical explosives. What is truth wrapped in? What is peace wrapped in?
Are not truth and peace wrapped in knowledge, which is wrapped in education, which is wrapped in Science and the Arts, enabling the soul to reach beyond the wrappers and limitations, which is defined as learning, which is wrapped in schools but also in mothers, media, movies and images of aspiration that not only mold and shape, move and motivate, but also confuse and stumble because they are wrapped in gain which is wrapped in some sort of reason or purpose or plan that is wrapped in something that is either good or bad or happy or sad that covers the mind that covers the thoughts that direct the body to act.
Colleen Klaus
Wrappers. Wrappings. Everything is wrapped. From as far as the eye can see, everything, and I mean everything, is covered. Everything has a wrapper, some sort of covering that either protects it, saves it, constructs it, but definitely in some way, small or large, distinguishes, defines and even disguises it. Very rarely is a product found, a package discovered, or person exposed in pure form. Even a newborn baby is enclosed within a womb that is enclosed within a human being that is enclosed within this visible world. What is not wrapped, covered or encased in something else?
The planet Earth is enclosed within the solar system; the ozone covers, hovers and essentially creates a protective layer for people and plants and all living things; identifiable buildings wrap themselves around people, but are they not also wrapped in brick and clay and cement that are wrapped in elements that are wrapped in other elements? Food is wrapped in shimmering, shiny paper and plastic packages and colorful foil, but isn't paper too wrapped in wood which is wrapped in trees that are wrapped in bark? Isn't the plastic packaged in chemicals?
Roads cover dirt. Brains are wrapped in skulls, and thoughts in minds, but what are minds wrapped in? Bodies are wrapped in skin that are covered with animal or synthetic skins. Feet are wrapped in shoes. Democracy is enveloped in principles and philosophies. Children are wrapped in security, wrapped in knowledge and wisdom. People are wrapped in ideas and beliefs and self-esteem and failings and pain and joy and good and bad and struggles and wealth and poverty and life and death and rise and fall and yesterday and today and tomorrow and forever as long as the Earth remains perfectly distanced from the sun, and nothing unexpected, such as a huge crater, covered in rock, or unusual or angry atom bomb, wrapped in science, from a disgruntled hero, who is wrapped in hate, which is wrapped in abuse or misunderstanding, want or power, decides to pull a trigger connected to a bomb that is covered in metal, covered in chemical explosives. What is truth wrapped in? What is peace wrapped in?
Are not truth and peace wrapped in knowledge, which is wrapped in education, which is wrapped in Science and the Arts, enabling the soul to reach beyond the wrappers and limitations, which is defined as learning, which is wrapped in schools but also in mothers, media, movies and images of aspiration that not only mold and shape, move and motivate, but also confuse and stumble because they are wrapped in gain which is wrapped in some sort of reason or purpose or plan that is wrapped in something that is either good or bad or happy or sad that covers the mind that covers the thoughts that direct the body to act.
Colleen Klaus
Friday, June 12, 2009
Today I will write about the gaping black hole.
The Gaping Hole
The hole was not noticeable. He never even knew that the gaping hole was part of him. He was a good man for the most part, and, of course, good depends on one's own definition, but for the most part he was a good man that desired good things for his life and his family. In other words, he wasn't completely selfish. At least to the best of his knowledge he did things for others. Whenever someone asked for his help, he usually performed the task willingly, and for the most part without grumbling or hesitation. His friends, however, were his life. He enjoyed the company of his friends and would talk and dream about the future and what he wanted out of life. His life would be different. He would make a lot of money; Money would fix everything. Money could repair all of the damages, and there were damages. He had created some of the damages to himself, but so had other people, but since life goes on and each new day brings a new beginning, there was plenty of time to make a good life and design it differently, do things differently, but what he didn't understand, what he could not possibly know, was that the very thing which had ruffled and displaced other designers, the unfamilar brush, would also attempt to paint his life.
The question he needed answered was one he could not formulate. In his striving, in his knowing and in his plan, he did not include the one part, the golden key, the missing link to his life's happiness. He had the vision, he saw the future with himself in it, different, but his compass lacked the one element that could guide his future and guarantee his happiness. Although he worked hard and had dreams, real concrete dreams, dreams that he could almost taste and touch and feel, they remained dreams. He still struggled to make them a reality. Money. Money. Money was all he needed, and he needed it five years ago, but being older now he needed it even more, but not just the money, it was the prestige that money bought. Money could make him the life of the party, the party giver or the party lender. He could be the guy everyone thronged to because people just naturally gravitate toward those with prestige and power, but what he had not realized, and maybe would never realize, was that money gradually and eventually, although always necessary and vital for a good life, the seeking of money for the sake of money, negligent of other related and important factors, was not the key to success or happiness and was eventually and gradually overwritten by the realities of existence.
When he went out to his favorite spot on Friday night, he did think about life, especially as he became familiar with one particular group who had been patronizing the place for the past few years. Unconsciously, maybe even hopefully, he watched this group interact over the past few years. This certain group met at the diner every week. They were in their late eighties and even some in their nineties. From their conversation, he had gathered that they had known each other for most of their adult lives. They dressed well, indicating money his in mind, in most minds, and they laughed and talked about kids and retirement and the possibility of declining pensions. What interested him most, being relatively youthful compared to them, was there sense of entitlement, which he so desired. Money was not a problem, or so it seemed, so what did they do; how did they live so long and so well, and how could he have it too, today, now. What he did not realize, and maybe never would, was they had worked hard and long and sacrificed and yes, been fortunate enough to have had promotions and employment for most of their lives, but they had endured. The obvious adornment didn't tell the story, and for the most part, it rarely does. The story is usually in the eyes or in the breadth of the shoulders or the gait or the understanding nod. It was the story of yesterday he could not listen to, nor did not want to listen, for the dollar signs were immediate. He had been told of the struggles one has to endure to succeed. He had been directed. He had been given the advice, but something deep within him rejected and always superseded the friendly advice. Was he impatient?
Colleen Klaus
The Gaping Hole
The hole was not noticeable. He never even knew that the gaping hole was part of him. He was a good man for the most part, and, of course, good depends on one's own definition, but for the most part he was a good man that desired good things for his life and his family. In other words, he wasn't completely selfish. At least to the best of his knowledge he did things for others. Whenever someone asked for his help, he usually performed the task willingly, and for the most part without grumbling or hesitation. His friends, however, were his life. He enjoyed the company of his friends and would talk and dream about the future and what he wanted out of life. His life would be different. He would make a lot of money; Money would fix everything. Money could repair all of the damages, and there were damages. He had created some of the damages to himself, but so had other people, but since life goes on and each new day brings a new beginning, there was plenty of time to make a good life and design it differently, do things differently, but what he didn't understand, what he could not possibly know, was that the very thing which had ruffled and displaced other designers, the unfamilar brush, would also attempt to paint his life.
The question he needed answered was one he could not formulate. In his striving, in his knowing and in his plan, he did not include the one part, the golden key, the missing link to his life's happiness. He had the vision, he saw the future with himself in it, different, but his compass lacked the one element that could guide his future and guarantee his happiness. Although he worked hard and had dreams, real concrete dreams, dreams that he could almost taste and touch and feel, they remained dreams. He still struggled to make them a reality. Money. Money. Money was all he needed, and he needed it five years ago, but being older now he needed it even more, but not just the money, it was the prestige that money bought. Money could make him the life of the party, the party giver or the party lender. He could be the guy everyone thronged to because people just naturally gravitate toward those with prestige and power, but what he had not realized, and maybe would never realize, was that money gradually and eventually, although always necessary and vital for a good life, the seeking of money for the sake of money, negligent of other related and important factors, was not the key to success or happiness and was eventually and gradually overwritten by the realities of existence.
When he went out to his favorite spot on Friday night, he did think about life, especially as he became familiar with one particular group who had been patronizing the place for the past few years. Unconsciously, maybe even hopefully, he watched this group interact over the past few years. This certain group met at the diner every week. They were in their late eighties and even some in their nineties. From their conversation, he had gathered that they had known each other for most of their adult lives. They dressed well, indicating money his in mind, in most minds, and they laughed and talked about kids and retirement and the possibility of declining pensions. What interested him most, being relatively youthful compared to them, was there sense of entitlement, which he so desired. Money was not a problem, or so it seemed, so what did they do; how did they live so long and so well, and how could he have it too, today, now. What he did not realize, and maybe never would, was they had worked hard and long and sacrificed and yes, been fortunate enough to have had promotions and employment for most of their lives, but they had endured. The obvious adornment didn't tell the story, and for the most part, it rarely does. The story is usually in the eyes or in the breadth of the shoulders or the gait or the understanding nod. It was the story of yesterday he could not listen to, nor did not want to listen, for the dollar signs were immediate. He had been told of the struggles one has to endure to succeed. He had been directed. He had been given the advice, but something deep within him rejected and always superseded the friendly advice. Was he impatient?
Colleen Klaus
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Write 1
Since I opened this blog to discuss writing, and secondly, as a means of writing, and thirdly, since I have just a few followers, and since I will be primarily writing to myself, I will begin a summer journal on for the purpose of writing. My first entry is titled, today.
Today
Today it rains.
Inside, I listen
to the steady humming--
to the dispersion of water,
drenching subdivisions, sidewalks and streets
running from roof to gutter,
swishing into saturated sewers.
Inside, I listen
to the contemplative quiet,
of the Earth's drenching.
Outside, I cannot listen.
Running to the car or house or store,
I reject the inconvenient cold, wet moisture
that dampens my feet and floods my vision;
yet it offers drink to timbering trees,
sustains squirrels, birds and hiding chipmunks.
When was the last time I stood outside, in the rain?
To listen, to watch, to be nourished?
Indoors and Outdoors.
Internal and External rain.
Today
Today it rains.
Inside, I listen
to the steady humming--
to the dispersion of water,
drenching subdivisions, sidewalks and streets
running from roof to gutter,
swishing into saturated sewers.
Inside, I listen
to the contemplative quiet,
of the Earth's drenching.
Outside, I cannot listen.
Running to the car or house or store,
I reject the inconvenient cold, wet moisture
that dampens my feet and floods my vision;
yet it offers drink to timbering trees,
sustains squirrels, birds and hiding chipmunks.
When was the last time I stood outside, in the rain?
To listen, to watch, to be nourished?
Indoors and Outdoors.
Internal and External rain.
Colleen Klaus
Monday, May 18, 2009
Hello Fellow Bloggers . . . I know that it has been a while since I blogged, so please forgive me but I am a new blogger. How often does one write or blog? Is it when the blogging spirit moves . . . (little humor). I am very impressed with your blog and pictures Jeannie. How do you place the video's and pictures on your blog? They are beautiful! How are you? Good I hope. Do you talk to friends on a blog? These are questions a new blogger wonders about. My daughter is whinning so I must go for now. Bye bloggers.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Why Write?
Why should a person write? Why is writing good for the soul, or is it? Why does writing take time and effort and work? Why is it that writing takes longer than speech? Why is it that to actually think about something, and to write thought down and to transcribe precise thought often takes time and multiple revisions? Do we do this with speech? Is it because words evaporate and the written word is eternal, so our words represent who we are and how we feel and what we like and dislike, so writing is more personal and private, and maybe because we can choose who to talk with, but our words on paper sometimes invite uninvited guests? Why should one take the time to write? What happens to one's mind when he or she takes the time to think about what to say and to write down in such a way that others can read and understand and respond? Why bother? Explain why you enjoy writing? Explain what happens as you compose? Do you enjoy reading interesting and lovely things? Why? Why not? Do you feel as though your privacy is invaded when you put your thoughts on paper or out in cybersapce? Write about today, this day, May 2, 2009. What was special or not so special about today?
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